


A Little King on a Little Hill

by inquisitor_tohru



Series: The Travellers in the Dark [4]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, LITERALLY, Poisoning, Space Opera, Storytelling, The Travellers in the Dark AU, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 22:13:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11998983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inquisitor_tohru/pseuds/inquisitor_tohru
Summary: Tim tells his biological father a story about the other clone from Coruscant.(Set in the same continuity as Between the Lies and Thursday's Child)





	A Little King on a Little Hill

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ayjee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayjee/gifts).



A Little King on a Little Hill

 

Brendol looked half-dead by the time Caleb brought him to see Tim in the medbay. His eyes were glazed like a doll’s, his skin paler than porcelain. The strange new bacterial infection that had made its way onto the _Finalizer_ was doing a number on many of the younger officers, and Tim was glad to see that Caleb still wore one of the light green face masks he’d given him, and grinned at the cartoonish smile he or someone else had drawn over the mouth.

“He keeps asking for Cardinal,” Caleb shrugged. Tim carefully pressed the back of his hand to Brendol’s head, confirming what he already knew – the fever was setting in. He motioned for one of the medical droids with one hand, while the other flew across the keyboard, updating the medical records.

“Acetaminophen, one thousand milligrams, please.” Brendol snorted. Caleb rolled his eyes at the old man, but otherwise ignored him.

He thanked the droid, earning another amused noise from Brendol, and filled a cup with water from the dispenser by his desk. _At least I know how to treat a fever, even if the droids need time to develop new antibiotics._ His hands shook as he took the cup, but Tim steadied them as he brought the water to his lips.

“Two of these,” he reminded Brendol, who seemed to have forgotten all about the tablets the droid had provided.

“I ought to get back to my station,” Caleb said, voice slightly muffled. “Since we’re short-staffed right now and all. Those ventral cannons aren’t going to calibrate themselves.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

“Thanks.” Caleb squeezed his shoulder before he left, the door opening with a _whoosh_ and closing again just as swiftly.

“Who’s Cardinal?” Tim asked gently, while Brendol gulped down a mouthful of water to wash down the tablets.

“It doesn’t matter now,” he mumbled. “You’re from Coruscant, aren’t you?” Tim nodded yes, and gave Brendol a chance to catch his breath. “I hear there’s another one of you there. Quite notorious.”

“There’s only one of me,” Tim corrected him, with a smile, “and I’m right here, luckily for you. But I think I know who you’re talking about, though I didn’t know he was any _relation_ of mine until recently.” _It certainly explains a few odd incidents, though._

“Constantinus, or so he calls himself.” Brendol chuckled, and began to cough, waving Tim away when he offered the cup of water. “I might be the only person who remembers his real name, aside from his birth mother.”

“His father’s still alive.”

“Maximian? Rotting in prison, the last I heard.”

“I’m surprised you’d think so, after talking about all the resources the New Republic wasted on prisons and rehabilitation,” Tim ventured. Brendol shot him a dark look, but then broke into a fit that was equal parts laughter and coughing. This time he took the water, drinking deeply from his cup, and looking as though we were wishing for something stronger. _Though perhaps not as strong as the stuff Maximian sold on the black market._

“True enough, true enough. Did you ever meet the man?”

“No. We…ah, travelled in rather different social circles, as you can imagine.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, pausing to check the datawork the droids had updated. “Though I heard stories. People like to gossip with their doctor, it would seem.”

“Tell me.”

 

* * *

 

Leto shivered as she stepped out of the portal. She never did get used to the cool air on the city surface, too acclimatised to the humidity and the crowds of Coruscant’s lower levels. Her lekku trembled slightly as she approached the Galaxies Opera House. Partly the chill in the air, but also a nervous excitement – she’d longed to see a production of _The Cantata of Cora Vessora_ since she was a girl, collecting old holotape recordings of the songs, and now her niece was playing the lead role.

But _Cora Vessora_ was not the only one with plans of death and revenge that evening.

Leto giggled and squirmed as two warm, familiar hands appeared from behind to cover her eyes.

“Connie!” She batted his hands away playfully, until he pulled out two tickets.

“Thank you.” He laughed softly, stooping slightly as she stood on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. She’d known Connie since he was a shy and awkward little boy, a far cry from the man he was now, and had known his Ma even longer. Vesta was not to join them that night, busying herself with taking care of her young grandson. In a way, they had become Leto’s adopted family, too.

She took Connie’s arm as they walked through the entrance together, letting him guide her through the throngs of theatre-goers. She felt more at ease than she had done outside - this was more what she was used to, even if the people were dressed in finer clothes. It was sometimes difficult for her to tell who was an actor and who wasn’t, when so many patrons of the arts were so theatrical in their manners and appearances. But for Leto, that all added to the fun of it.

She tensed as someone she recognised brushed past her, a sneer on his lips beneath that ridiculous moustache. Connie must have noticed her unease – perhaps her grip on his arm had tightened – and manoeuvred the both of them towards the other end of the bar, where a droid was meticulously cleaning the used glasses.

“That’s him?” he asked, in that soft voice of his, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Leto didn’t hesitate in nodding. He glanced back towards the elderly moustached man, flashing him a smile as he caught his eye. Or perhaps, as pretty as the smile was, it would be more accurate to say he was baring his teeth, the way a kath hound does when it corners its prey.

“Just one moment, Leto.” Discreetly, he took out a small datapad, and began swiping and typing. “And there we go. You shan’t have to worry about him for much longer. He’ll be down in the stalls, while we’ll be watching from a private box. The best seats in the house, with the best view.” She exhaled, realising she’d been holding her breath for some time, and managed to rekindle some of her excitement for the opera.

“I’m looking forward to seeing Ana as Cora. She’s worked so hard for this.” On Coruscant, those whose families were not blessed with wealth had to work twice as hard, and this was doubly true for non-humans and for women. Some had called Ana’s casting a miracle, but Leto did not, for that would have undermined all her niece’s efforts.

“Her acting skills are second to none,” Connie agreed. “I’m confident in saying that Ana has a _bright_ future ahead of her.”

Sure enough, when the time came, Ana moved gracefully across the stage, not quite running, not quite dancing as she sang. Oh, how she sang. When Leto watched Ana on that stage, she _was_ Cora Vessora, the witch who denied the Sith and the Jedi alike, enduring their violent wrath and passive cruelty, and declaring her vengeance on them all, on the _galaxy._

The witch had nothing to lose, when she procured her magic potion from her robes. A viscous liquid, the colour of brimstone, in a large, clear goblet – impractical, realistically speaking – but the audience need to be able to make out its form and contents. Leto gasped as Cora Vessora sank to her knees, and reached out toward the members of the audience closest to the stage, offering the goblet to the man with the moustache.

He must have been in the wrong seat, for he was no Sith Lord, but his companions tittered and nudged him in the ribs, egging him on to play along. Leto gripped the edge of the box as he took the oversized goblet, focusing on keeping hold of the miniature quadnocs so she didn’t miss what happened next.

The moustached man let out an unholy scream, clutching at his throat as the theatre erupted with applause, his friends cheering and laughing at what a good show their companion put on. But Constantinus did not cheer. He merely smiled and sipped his Green Vesper.

“You’re right,” Leto said. “The view from up here _is_ good.”

 

* * *

 

Brendol coughed again. “Who was the man?”

“Adanste Smir, a slaver.”

“Hmph, not that I’ve ever heard of. So no one _successful._ ” Tim checked the old man’s forehead again. The fever had started to go down. “Just as I thought, Constantinus really is a little king on a little hill. One petty criminal eliminating another petty criminal.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Tim said, shifting to let one of the droids past to take his pulse. “Not entirely. You see…nobody was ever convicted for the crime.” _That_ piqued Brendol’s interest.

“Then the Twi’lek girl…”

“Ana’s acting skills were as impeccable as Constantinus believed they were. As far as anyone was concerned, she was as shocked as anyone when Smir’s throat turned red, burning from the inside out. A few months later I saw her on a poster advertising a new production of _Madra Teene_. A full opera house, and _nobody saw anything._ ”

Knowing how horrific the man’s death must have been, Tim felt guilt at the pang of excitement that had overcome him as he recalled the story – even if Smir had likely deserved his fate, if half the tales about him were true. But it was too easy to be thrilled by such a story when nobody _you_ cared about was involved.

“Perhaps the hill is not so little after all,” Brendol mused. When he was about to say something else, he began coughing again, his mouth filling with phlegm. Tim handed him a tissue.

“You ought to get some rest now.” Brendol snorted, but he conceded. The boy knew his stuff when it came to medicine. “When you’re feeling better…tell me about Cardinal.” It was neither a request, nor an order, but something else.

“Very well, Doctor.” 

 

 


End file.
